


QaF-US Ficlet/Drabbles: "In Venice" (Brian/Justin)

by justinlovesart



Category: QAF (US) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justinlovesart/pseuds/justinlovesart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-513 series set in Venice.</p><p>A variety of formats, but mainly drabbles and short vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	QaF-US Ficlet/Drabbles: "In Venice" (Brian/Justin)

**Four Venetian Drabbles**

1\.   
The early morning breeze blowing from the open windows awakens him.

He knows that Justin is already drawing on the balcony of their suite, even before he stretches his arm to find the other side of the bed empty, the cotton sheet cool to the touch.

Like every morning since their arrival, Brian raises from his pillow to watch Justin through the flowing, gauzy curtains: the blond head - hair long and unruly - moves up and down, between the view in front of him and his sketchpad, before the Italian July heat makes the light too hazy for details.

2.  
Sometime, Justin stops drawing.

He tries to absorb everything, painfully aware that too many details will escape him. That memory will fail him.

The memory of two nights ago is already fading.

They partied all night, this he remembers.

Venice was illuminated in rainbow colors, briefly reminding of him of Liberty Avenue, so long ago…

He remembers feeding Brian chunks of succulent watermelon, on a barge full of Italian men.

"They keep staring at you." Brian smiled, smugly.

"At us. They want us." But Justin knew his blondness gave him an edge, here.

"We cannot disappoint them, then."

They didn't.

3.  
Brian wonders what Justin thinks about, when he stares at the view of the Canal Grande.

Is his mind filled with art and light, lines and colors? Or does he also let himself remember the events of the previous days?

He recalls Justin's pale skin alight in the multicolor of the fireworks, two nights ago, and again glowing against the tanned Italian bodies.

They fucked all night, each other and others.

But at dawn it was just the two of them, together, on the beach.

Their kisses tasted like watermelon, their mouths the only part of them untouched by sand.

4.  
Justin turns, sensing that Brian's awake.

They look at each other for a few seconds, in silence, before he walks back into the room.

He's already naked as he stretches next to Brian.

"You should sleep more." Brian's voice is still groggy with sleep.

Justin closes his eyes and purrs: "There's too much to see. So many beautiful things."

"More beautiful than my cock?"

"Mmmhh: Italian Baroque or your cock? It's a tough one. I need to do more research."

He slides down Brian's body, making a mental note to fetch his sketchpad from the balcony immediately after their fuck.

 

**Water on Water**

"Close the windows and come to bed."

But Justin can't get enough of the sound of raindrops pelting the sea.

Rain in a city that floats is different.

He breathes in the cooling air and wonders if he can catch it in watercolor: who knew that grey could come in so many shades?

"If you want to get wet, I'll fuck you in the shower."

When he feels Brian's mouth on the nape of his neck, he decides that memory will suffice.

"Fuck me on the balcony, instead."

And Brian does, searing each detail of the view in Justin's mind.

 

**Shine**

Justin has a sixth sense for deserted calli, unadorned bridges, narrow footpaths that lead to the edge of the sea.

Brian follows him in the languid summer heat that deters also the bravest German tourist. Perfectly still and quiet, if not for the soft sound of water slowly eroding the hidden foundations.

He walks half a step behind, because he likes to glance at the white midday light playing with blond hair.

Whenever the mood takes him (but he suspects the sudden hesitation and the tilted head are always deliberate), he grabs Justin by the hand and pushes him against the nearest baroque wall.

"Who knew that sightseeing could make you so horny." Justin does nothing to conceal his grin.

Brian inhales the summer from Justin's skin and rubs himself against his equally hard cock. "I relish the sights," he whispers, before capturing Justin's lips.

Later, they'll find respite in a small church forgotten by travellers. Justin will discover a minor masterpiece he'll spend hours sketching, while Brian will pretend to be bored.

Then, they'll rejoin the Babel of languages and life in all its colors.

But for now it's just the two of them, breathing under the yellow sun.

**Between Seasons**

1.  
The nights become cooler, all of a sudden. The sun dives into the sea a little earlier every day and the mosquitoes stop biting Justin's tender skin.

They walk through calli they now know by heart, without hurry, but with a sense of purpose: rare prints and designer clothes, expensive gold earrings and cheap Carnival masks, leather belts and Murano glass rings...

There are hot Italian fucks and fresh seafood, while the smell of tourists and their suntan lotions is erased by the scent of Fall and everything, every little detail, must be memorized for the winter months: there aren't enough sketchbooks in the world to capture all this.

It's almost time to pack, but they stretch their time a little longer, one week, then two, then three.

2.  
The last room they visit at the Biennale is the Spanish Pavilion, where they lie on the floor and stare at a ceiling filled with water and translucent silver fish.

After a while, Brian stands up to brush his new cashmere sweater and grumbles something about "Fucking hanging aquariums: and they call it art." But then he looks down at Justin who can't take his eyes off the suspended water, holding his breath.

"I don't know if I can ever do something like this."

And Brian looks away, because he hears the regret and the doubt, and he can't fix that.

3.  
That night they sleep with a green-eyed prince they pick up in a souvenir shop, while buying a white plastic gondola for Debbie: "The biggest you have, please."

He eyes them up and down, nodding approvingly at Brian's footwear, and asks them if they'd be interested in seeing a Canaletto of his own: "Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a little family heirloom. But since you seem to appreciate gondolas..."

Brian is unconvinced, at first. "Isn't he a little too old even for you, Sunshine?" he asks, while the man orders prosecco and nibbles of olives with shaved parmiggiano at the bar.

"Because of the receding hairline?" Justin raises an eyebrow. "It's Italian blue blood, Brian! Plus, how often do you get to fuck a prince?"

Brian looks at him in silence and Justin only says "Oh", before leaning in.

They wake up to the sight of frescoed ceilings that make Justin's heart skip a beat or two ("That can not be a Tiepolo. Right?"), and to the aroma of the most perfectly brewed coffee, of fragrant cream-filled croissants the maid delivers as quietly and discreetly as possible.

"Princely hospitality," Brian admits, pleased that the aristocrat knew exactly when to leave the bed.

Justin devours half of his croissant in one bite. "European tricks have impeccable manners," he agrees, darting his tongue to scoop up the cream that's dripping down his chin.

"Not to mention the cocks." Brian closes in because he doesn't want to miss the blend of vanilla and sugar, coffee, last night's come (his? the prince's? he honestly can't remember) and that sweetness that's all Justin, only Justin.

4.  
They send the luggage by boat, but walk to the station, leaving as early as possible because they want their kisses to be many and lingering, and that takes time.

"You're not Tiepolo" Brian tells him firmly over a small wooden bridge that has nothing artistic or memorable about it.

"You're not Canaletto." Justin nods and holds on tight because he knows exactly what Brian is saying. He hasn't cried in a very long time and he sure as hell isn't going to start now.

"You're not the greatest emerging American artist exhibiting at the Biennale and forcing people to lie on the fucking floor to show how clever you are." Justin laughs, and sniffles a little. "But you will be, because god knows you're pretentious enough," he runs both hands over Justin's hair.

Once at the station, Brian doesn't turn once to look back, to Justin's relief. They hop on a first class carriage that's almost empty and almost clean.

"Now go back," Brian orders him, relaxing in his seat and opening a magazine.

"There's still time," Justin tries, aware that it won't make any difference.

"Of course there is," Brian replies, meaning it. "It's just that you're going to miss your favorite light." He shrugs a little when Justin reassures him, "Only until winter." But they both know that these promises matter.

Justin is already half way through the platform when he hears Brian calling his name.

"And don't you ever forget: you're the king of Babylon and you get to fuck princes. More than can be said of that Spanish twat."

Justin smiles as brightly and he can bring himself to do. "You too, Brian," he thinks, but he shouts back "I'll try to remember."

Then he walks out, into the Venetian sun.


End file.
